


All This Happened, More or Less

by Honorable_mention



Series: Goodbye Blue Monday [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassin Peter Parker, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra Peter Parker, Irondad, Manic Episode, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-20 15:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19994245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honorable_mention/pseuds/Honorable_mention
Summary: Peter Parker is still trying to recover from his life at HYDRA. He just wishes that the people around him could see that.Or: Five Times People Didn't Understand Peter, and One Time Someone Did





	1. As Close to the Edge

Tony Stark had dealt with a lot of traumatized people in his life. It came with the superhero territory. You get to save the world, and in exchange you have to listen to all of your teammate’s’ disturbing backstories. Sometimes it was taxing, but it was Tony’s cross to bear. And, at the end of the day, it was all worth it.

Sure, it could be a lot to comfort Bruce on one of his bad days, when he could barely keep the other guy inside. But Tony was the only one up at that ungodly hour, anyway, and it was worth it to see Bruce smile.

And, yes, it was strange to bake cookies with the Winter Soldier, but both of their therapists said it was a good idea, and who were they to argue with professionals? It was nice, anyway, to have a partner in crime when they fed Steve the burnt baked goods. Steve would always eat them with a smile, no matter how bad they were, which was hilarious.

Tony, himself, had his own fair share of trauma. He tried not to think about it, but one can only be so self-destructive before it starts to catch up to them. And then you’re thinking about your dad, and the Battle of New York, and then it’s too much, and it’s Steve baking Tony burnt cookies at eight in the morning.

So yeah. Tony thought he had seen his fair share of trauma.

And then he met Peter.

Peter, the kid who was raised by HYDRA and who killed more than Natasha before he was ten. Peter, the kid who still wanted to put on a stupid red suit and save a world that wouldn’t save him. Peter, the kid who was smart, and curious, and who managed to weasel his way into Tony’s life. Not that Tony was complaining.

Tony had sat with Peter when he cried, when he threw up all over the bathroom, then sobbed some more, wailing the whole time about an old couple in Paris. Tony had been there for him, and watched him as he slowly began to recover from his past. It was beautiful, and Tony was proud.

Which is why Tony was so surprised to see Peter running around his lap at four in the morning. He had on some safety equipment, goggles, a too-big band t-shirt, and mismatched tennis shoes. In his left hand he clutched a vial that seemed to be smoking, and in the other he was attempting to scroll down a tablet, though his lack of mobility was hindering the process. When he saw Tony he threw down his equipment and came barreling towards him.

“Stark! It’s so good to see you!”

“Kid, you just saw me, like, five hours ago.”

“But it’s been so long! I’ve been doing so much without you.”

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Tony was sure he told the kid to go to sleep before midnight. After finding out how bad Peter’s habits could be, he and Bucky were trying to get the kid to maintain a steady sleep and meal schedule. It was much harder than expected.

“Well, Stark, I tried to go to sleep. And then I was lying in bed, and I started wondering about whether or not I could do push-ups on the ceiling. And guess what?” He waited a minute, as if waiting for a response to his rhetorical question. “I can! It was so cool. I should totally build you some boots and gloves so that you can do it, too. You could add them to your suit, and we could be spider-buddies! I mean, the Black Widow’s already trying to-”

“Kid, slow down. Take a deep breath.” He did an exaggerated hand motion, watching as Peter finally took what could have been his first breath in minutes. “Aren’t you tired?”

“No! Don’t you understand, Stark? I don’t need to sleep,” Peter said.

“Come on. Everyone needs to sleep.”

“Not me. I have so much energy that I’ll never need to sleep or eat again. I can just keep on working forever.”

“I think Bucky would kill me if I let you do that,” Stark said.

“He doesn’t need to know. At least let me work with you tonight. I promise I won’t be a nuisance.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about, Peter. I just don’t think it’s healthy for a boy your age to be getting this little rest.”

“Well, Stark, I’m not like other boys my age, am I?” Peter yelled. There was silence as his words echoed through the lab before Peter began apologizing. “Stark, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’ll try not to do that next time, really. I promise.”

“Peter, you don’t need to apologize. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry about that. Can you show me what you were working on?” Peter’s face lit back up as he grabbed the smoking vial.

“You know how we were working on a new formula for my webs?” Tony nodded. “Well, I was thinking, what if we tried some new kinds of polymers for the base. I know the old ones work fine, but it’s always fun to improve. Maybe we’ll discover something entirely new!”

“That would be cool, wouldn’t it?” Now it was Peter’s turn to nod enthusiastically. “Plus, we get to test the webs.”

“And testing’s the best part.”

“Obviously,” Tony said. “Can you agree to try to go to sleep in thirty minutes if we work on this now?”

“That sounds great, Stark.”

The sun rose through the windows of Tony’s lab as the hours passed, though neither Peter nor Tony seemed to notice, too caught up in their work. None of their new formulas functioned correctly, but the more Silly String-like ones did get a lot of usage. They were running around, shooting each other with their seventh failed web design when Bucky walked in with his morning cup of coffee. He glared at Tony as he led Peter away to his room. 

It was strange, Tony thought, how active Peter had seemed. He usually crashed around ten o’clock, and he’d be out cold by ten thirty. It must just be teenage hormones. If it was anything else, Tony would know. Because he knew trauma. It came with the territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad no one has called me out for stealing all my titles from Kurt Vonnegut. I get to do it myself. Anyway, I hope you like this! Tony's trying his best, but it can be hard with a traumatized Spiderkid.


	2. In the Interests of Survival

Flash couldn’t stand Peter. 

Peter could do whatever the hell he wanted, and no one gave a damn. He could skip school for months at a time, then come back, and everyone would pretend like that was a totally normal thing to do. 

Peter was skinny, too skinny, and yet he always beat Flash at athletics. He was faster than Flash, smarter than Flash, stronger than Flash. But he didn’t seem to care, and that was the worst part. Peter could be everything Flash wanted to be, and it didn’t matter to him.

Flash had first met Peter when they had seventh grade Social Studies together. He had spent the class watching Peter, who had wasted each period chatting with Ned, not paying any attention. And yet he’d still gotten an A+ while Flash struggled to earn his A.

Flash had tried to be friends with Peter, back when they were in middle school, but Peter had just put his head down and rushed past Flash. He hadn’t even said anything to Flash when he spoke to him. If Peter didn’t want the olive branch Flash was extending to him, than Flash wasn’t going to try to be his friend any longer.

In high school, Flash was a little colder to Peter. No single person had the right to be as talented as Peter, and Flash would prove it. If Peter had to be so smart, than he could at least be brought down a notch by Flash. All Flash was doing was correcting a minor cosmic error in the universe.

But Peter didn’t even notice Flash. He just stayed with his stupid little friends, Michelle and Ned, and didn’t talk to Flash. Even when Flash tried to get his attention. Sometimes it was with chatter, other times with taunts. And still Peter didn’t care about Flash, even though Flash desperately wanted him to. 

Not that Flash cared about Peter. He couldn’t stand him.

\--

It was the end of gym class the first time Flash got Peter to talk to him. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. 

They were the only ones left in the locker room. The rest of the class had rushed out to lunch, but Flash and Peter still hung around. Flash didn’t know what Peter was doing. He seemed to just be sitting on the bench, staring at nothing.

“Are you okay?” Flash asked, trying to seem casual as he packed up the last of his things.

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”

“Cause you seem kinda spacey, that’s all.” It wasn’t that Flash cared. He really didn’t. But maybe if it was something particularly embarrassing, Flash could tell all his friends about. They said they were tired of hearing about Peter, but Flash was sure they’d still listen if Flash had something particularly interesting to tell them.

“It’s really nothing,” Peter said.

“If you die, and I have to go to court as the last person to see you alive, I will personally go to your grave and fuck your shit up.”

“Whatever, Eugene. Just leave me alone.” Flash walked to the door and turned the lights off on Peter, leaving him in the dark. As he went to the cafeteria, he couldn’t help but smile. Peter knew his name, the one he used in middle school. He must have paid at least a little attention to him. Not that Flash needed Peter to notice him. That would be ridiculous.

\--

A few kids always stayed behind to clean up after Academic Decathlon practices. They’d wash the tables, scrub the floors, turn out all the lights. The team technically didn’t have to do it, but it helped create the goodwill necessary to keep using the auditorium as their practice space.

The second time Flash spoke to Peter, they were cleaning up after practice together. Flash kept trying to start up conversations with Peter, but Peter wouldn’t talk to him. Flash talked about the weather, and that terrible bio test from Monday, and what superheroes he liked. Spiderman was his favorite, but there could definitely be an argument made for Hawkeye.

“He’s a bitch.” Oh my God. Peter was actually talking to him. It felt nice. Not nice, but different? Flash didn’t know.

“Why would you, of all people, know about Hawkeye?” 

Peter shrugged and said, “I have my sources.”

“Of course you do.” And then the conversation was over, and maybe Flash could continue it? Because it was different talking to Peter, but a nice kind of different. Flash could bathe in the feeling, could devour it, could do anything he wanted with it. He could keep talking to Peter. 

But then they’d finished cleaning, and they were standing outside of the school, and Flash had to decide how he was going to get home. He was waving goodbye to Peter, and Peter wasn’t waving back. Flash wanted to say something to him. He wanted to give him his phone number, and tell him to call Flash if he ever wanted to hang out. But he couldn’t do it. Instead he watched Peter disappear around a corner, out of sight.

\--

The third time Flash spoke with Peter was in the school bathroom. Flash was washing his hands when he heard something that sounded like a dying bird knocking on the pipes as it fought for it’s final breath.

“Hello?” The sound began to taper off, and Flash realized that it was someone crying. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” the person said, and Flash realized it was Peter.

“Really? Because you don’t sound fine.”

“I swear,” Peter said, before he hiccuped a sob, “I swear that I’m okay.”

“You better not be lying. Because I don’t want your mommy to come chasing after me cause I left you here when you were sick.”

“My mom’s dead,” Peter whispered. Flash could barely hear him. 

“So is mine,” Flash said, because she was. She had died when Flash was only four, and he could barely remember her. 

Peter didn’t respond, and Flash began to worry. Had he misread the situation? Would Peter come out and start laughing at what a fool Flash was? 

“I’m in the third stall. It’s unlocked.”

It was strange to comfort Peter. Flash held his hair back when he threw up, and listened to him mutter non-sensical sentences. He cried about something Flash didn’t understand, and Flash swore up and down that he knew what Peter was talking about. He was heedless of what Peter would think of him when he promised Peter that it was okay to be upset about it whatever was bothering him. Peter thanked Flash through his tears.

Flash was sure that Peter would pretend none of this ever happened the next day, but in that moment he didn’t care. It wasn’t that Flash cared about Peter. It was just that he wanted to protect him.

Flash didn’t know why Peter was the way he was. He didn’t know why he acted so bizarrly, and why no one seemed to care what he did. He didn’t know, and he thought that, just maybe, it didn’t matter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can pry the fact that Flash is a complex character out of my cold, dead hands. Also, watch me project my issues onto Peter throughout this story like a boss.


	3. How Nice, to Feel Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning that this chapter is about self-harm, so be careful, cause I know that's tough for a lot of people.

MJ’s friend, Peter, was strange. Not a bad strange, per se, but strange nonetheless. Cindy wasn’t sure what about him was off, but it was there. Maybe it was the way he stood, always so casual, yet ready to snap to attention at any moment. She remembers one time how she’d accidentally dropped a pencil behind his back, and how he’d shot up, his eyes glazed over. 

Maybe his strangeness was the way he never wanted to be around anyone but his friends, yet everyone liked him anyway. Cindy certainly liked him. He was nice. 

Cindy didn’t know what it was about Peter that was strange, but she knew the strangeness was real, and that its borders were infinite and untested.

Cindy wouldn’t say that she was friends with Peter, more close acquaintances. They could have been closer, if they wanted to, but both seemed content to keep their relationship the way it was. 

They both knew MJ, so sometimes they’d hang out together with her. Cindy thought that they might have discussed Faulkner one time, or maybe it was Calvino. She couldn’t remember. It had been a nice conversation, though, about form, and intent, and time.

Peter seemed normal, and Cindy never had the thought to worry about him. Not that she was the kind of person to worry about other people, anyway. Sure, she cared about her friends, and if someone was dying she’d call an ambulance and administer CPR. But she wasn’t going to get all up in people’s business. That was just rude. Her mother taught her better than that.

But then she first noticed them in Academic Decathlon practice. Little parallel lines up the side of Peter’s leg. She wouldn’t have seen them, except his pant leg rode up a little when he went to grab a pencil, and Cindy was looking at just the right time. Unless someone was staring at Peter, they wouldn’t have seen them. 

It could have been anything, really. It could have been from his clothes, or from rubbing against a wall the wrong way. There was no reason for Cindy to worry about Peter, because it surely wasn’t anything.

But over the next few days she tried to watch him more carefully. Not that she was worried about him. It was purely for curiosity's sake.

He seemed normal, or at least as normal as Peter usually was. Cindy asked MJ, but she told her that he was fine. 

The next week at practice, Cindy watched Peter again. She waited for him to move in a way that let her see the same spot on his leg. It took half an hour, but eventually he reached for the buzzer faster than normal, and Cindy caught a glimpse.

The lines were still there. They were ugly white lines, raised against his skin. They still ran like steps of a ladder down his leg, just like they had the week before. She couldn’t see the end of them, just the trail heading up his leg.

Surely he hadn’t done it himself, Cindy thought. Peter wasn’t the kind of person to do that. He was put-together and well-behaved. The perfect kid that parents dream of having. He was strange, but not in a self-harming way. More a “I wrote a whole paper for AP English about the work of Dr. Seuss” way. He couldn’t do that, hurt himself, because he was well-adjusted.

Cindy had cut herself before, back when she was still in middle school and figuring herself out. It wasn’t something most people knew about, wasn’t something she was proud of. She knew why someone would do it. She just didn’t know why Peter would do it.

He had so much going for him. He had great friends, and good grades. What more could he be missing?

It wasn’t fair that someone could be as good as Peter and still be depressed. You’re only supposed to be sad when things are really bad. 

That was what Cindy was most ashamed of herself for. Her life had been so good, and yet she’d still tried to tell herself it was terrible. She was at the top of her class, and her parents loved each other, and her family had enough money to go on vacation each summer.

Yet she had still hidden in her room with shaky hands. She had watched the blood drip out of her arm, hot drops clinging to her skin for purchase. She had felt better, even though she had nothing to feel bad about.

Cindy was a shitty person, and it wasn’t okay for Peter to be a shitty person as well. He was supposed to be so much better than her, so much better than everyone. 

She knew that her therapist would be disappointed in her. He always said that she had nothing to feel ashamed about. You didn’t need to suffer to be sad. Sometimes you just got sick, and your thoughts got tangled up in your mind, and all you had to do was work to untangle the threads. 

She knew he would say that, but it sounded like a load of horseshit. She was better now, because she knew that her life was good, so she should be happy. It wasn’t anything about threads, or breathing, or little white pills. It was learning that she didn’t deserve to be unhappy.

Peter’s life was good, too. Maybe he also knew that you didn’t deserve to be sad unless you went through a ton of shit. Maybe he’d learned that lesson, just like Cindy had. She wouldn’t know, because that wasn’t the kind of thing you brought up to someone when all you’d talked about was Faulkner, maybe Calvino.

Those were the kind of things that made your mom frown when you talked about them at dinner. Cindy was supposed to say that depression was an illness, and that it didn’t care about your lot in life. She was supposed to say that she didn’t have to be happy all the time, even if she was living the ‘suburban dream’. She was supposed to do this, and supposed to be that.

She knew for sure that she wasn’t supposed to judge other people the way that she did. But it was so easy, and it made her feel so much better.

Cindy wasn’t worried about Peter, because she didn’t worry about people. It wasn’t in her character. But the next time she went out with MJ, she asked about Peter. MJ said that it was strange that Cindy was so obsessed with him. She wasn’t, she promised, she just wanted to make sure he was okay. 

But she wasn’t worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can write about corpses and murder, but this chapter was tough. Not to get too personal, but I have some mental illness problems, and this was pretty hard, because it was pretty similar to the ways I've thought and acted in the past. Please remember while reading this that Cindy's thoughts are disordered. Depression is a disease, and happiness isn't a choice.
> 
> That was kinda heavy (she says, despite having literally written about child murderers before), so on a lighter note, I've been cleaning my room out, and I keep finding the most awesome shit. Like, I'm now covered in Jane Austen temporary tattoos, and I'm living my best life.


	4. Trapped in the Amber of the Moment

Natasha Romanov had a lot in common with Peter Parker. Both were raised by HYDRA. Both had been taken in by an Avenger, and both were certified badasses. Okay, the last one may have just been Natasha’s opinion, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

Peter wouldn’t talk about his past with her, but Natasha knew what it was like. She’d once called her trainer ‘mama’, and she still remembered the way the beating had left her skin red and raw.

She’d tried to talk about it with Peter. She didn’t want him to feel cornered, so she’d brought it up when they were both in the training room. There was no better way to deal with your pain then by beating the living shit out of a punching bag. Peter would be relaxed, and they could just chat like old friends.

But Peter had told her that she just didn’t understand. She’d been a HYDRA operative too, Peter, so she would know better than anyone else. Bucky understood, he said, because he’d been there too. Natasha hadn’t.

She had been in HYDRA during the Cold War. They had power, then, real power, and they let the girls in the Red Room know it. The madame always reminded them that they didn’t matter. They were replaceable. HYDRA could find ten girls better than them in an instant, if they let the true cause down.

She knew that Peter had been raised later, when HYDRA was just a few labs and bases spread across the world. They still held some sway, especially in areas without much SHIELD activity, but not nearly as much as they had in Natasha’s time.

It didn’t matter, though. The intricacies of their trauma weren’t important. Deep down they both felt the same way. HYDRA was evil, and they had to stop it at all costs. Sometimes other things got in the way, and if either of them went too long without punching some Nazi shithead in the face, they got sad. 

That’s why Peter was so upset when she found him in the common room on an overcast Saturday.

“Good morning, Peter,” she said, walking over to the couch he was slumped on. They were the only ones up, besides Sam and Steve, and the two of them had already left for their morning jog. Steve and Sam liked to go before anyone was conscious enough to recognize them and ask for an autograph.

“Hey, Romanov.” Peter had been sulking for a while now. Everyone was giving him a wide berth. None of them (except Barnes, shockingly enough) knew how to deal with a teenager, though they tried to pretend they did.

“How’re you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Sure,” she said, sitting down next to him. He pressed against the edge of the sofa, as far from her as he could be. Natasha watched a pigeon land on the edge of the windowsill, then fly away. She never saw them this high. “You just seem a little upset, Peter. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m really fine. You can leave me alone.”

“Well, I’m going out today, just to grab a couple things for Clint’s birthday. I might swing by that Thai restaurant you keep recommending on my way back. I can leave you alone, but you’re also free to come along.” 

Peter sighed. “Okay, whatever.”

\--

Natasha had known Clint for a long time. She was practically his sister at this point, or at least his rambunctious cousin that got into mischief with him. People always blamed Clint for their stupidity, but they passed around their two collective brain cells like the Graeae. 

She would say she knew him well. But standing in the novelty gift store, she seemed to forget everything he liked.

She dragged Peter down the rows of gag gums and kitschy cards. Sometimes she’d pull something off the shelves, but then Peter would scoff, and she’d slide it back. After twenty minutes, she still hadn’t found anything.

They were walking down aisle four when Peter started giggling. Natasha had not been expecting that. She whipped around to look at Peter. He tried to stifle his laughs, but when he realized he couldn’t hide them from her, he tilted his head towards a row of rubber chickens.

“You have to get those for Clint,” Peter said.

“Why?”

“Just trust me, you do.” Peter was smiling. It was nice. If rubber chickens was what it took to get Peter’s mind off HYDRA, than Natasha would fill the tower with rubber chickens until they broke free and flowed down the streets of Manhattan.

“How many do you think would be good?” She began taking them off the shelf and holding them under her arm.

“I don’t know. Five or six, maybe?”

“And you’re sure Clint’s going to like this?”

“Oh, Romanov, he’s going to hate it. And that’s why we’re legally required to do it. Oh, and we have to say it’s from Wade.” Natasha wasn’t going to question it. She was sure that Peter knew what he was doing.

Eventually they left the store with the chickens, a Deadpool themed birthday card, Iron Man pyjamas from Natasha, and a button that just said “fuck you, motherfucker,” in comic sans and undercase letters. The last item was Peter’s gift. He hoped Clint appreciated it. 

They carried their bags to the Thai restaurant that Peter used to go to with May, and got a booth in the corner. They ordered steaming plates of larb, and bamboo shoots, and sticky rice. It was quiet, and someone had lit a few candles. The food was delicious, and they ate in silence. Peter seemed much less upset than he had earlier, but something still seemed to be bothering him. As they were finishing their meal, Natasha spoke.

“Peter, I hope you know that you can tell me anything. I won’t judge you.”

“I’m sure you won’t try to, but everyone judges everyone all the time.” He took a sip of his tea. “It’s just the way things are.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“Why would I say it if I didn’t believe it?”

“Sometimes people are weird like that. They don’t say what they mean.”

“This isn’t some sort of subtext thing,” he said. “I just don’t want to talk to you, okay?”

She understood how hard it could be to open up. It wasn’t easy to say that you were still healing, and she wanted to make sure Peter didn’t have to go through the years of pain she had endured.

“You know, Peter, I really do understand. Once you realize that HYDRA’s a bunch of evil dickheads, you only want to see them burn. And it’s hard when they don’t, you know?”

“I’m sure that sucks for you, Romanov,” he said, “but that isn’t what bothers me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natasha deserved better from Endgame, and that's the tea. Also, you can't tell me that she and Clint don't do a bunch of dumb shit together.


	5. In as Little Time as Possible

Betty Brant considered herself to be a journalist. She had been on the morning news show at Midtown High School for two years now, and she took her job very seriously. She had written over ten stories for the school magazine, and she’d even gotten an interview with a first responder who had helped after an Avengers battle. He had been her friend’s uncle, but that wasn’t important. She was still a real journalist.

So when Cindy asked her to figure out what was up with Peter, she took the assignment with the utmost seriousness. Yes, she might have gotten distracted for a week and a half because she’d had a Mock Trial competition coming up that she wanted to practice for, but now she was ready. 

She began by trying to figure out everything she knew about Peter. He was sixteen, he was a sophomore, he went to Midtown. He was super smart, and he was on the Academic Decathlon team. She also knew that he was friends with Ned and MJ, and that he was a huge nerd. That was about it.

Well, she did know that Abe had told her one time that he’d seen Peter take off his shirt, and that Peter was super ripped. Like, body-builder level. Betty doubted that. Peter was practically a stick. Of course, Betty didn’t mind investigating the claim; it would be especially nice if it turned out to be true. 

Thinking about it, Betty really didn’t know that much about Peter. For all she knew, he could be harboring some deep dark secret that he, alone, knew. Maybe he was a vampire. It didn’t seem likely, but then again, superhumans, giant green guys, and men who flew around in mechanical suits of armor also didn’t seem likely. And Betty had to listen to Captain America talk about condoms in Health class that day.

Any presumptions Betty made about Peter didn’t matter, though. All that was important were the facts. 

Betty knew that she couldn’t go up to Ned or MJ and ask about Peter. That would incite suspicion. She was sure that they knew the most of anyone in the school, but they were also the least likely to talk. She thought about who else she could speak with, and then she realized the perfect candidate to interview. Flash.

Flash tried to say that he didn’t know anything about Peter, nor did he care, but Betty knew better. She was an investigative journalist. Flash had the hots for Peter, hardcore.

“Flash! It’s been a while, we should catch up,” Betty said, waving him down.

“Oh, hey. How’ve you been?”

“Pretty good.”

“The morning news show has been looking great recently,” he said.

“Thanks! We really try to make it as awesome as possible.”

“I can tell.” There was a beat as Betty tried to figure out how to move the conversation to the topic of Peter.

“So, about Peter Parker. How’s he been lately?” Real smooth Brant, real smooth.

“Why the hell would I know?” Flash was getting defensive, which Betty knew was bad. You never wanted your source to put up walls between themselves and you She had to think quickly to defuse the situation.

“I don’t know. I just thought that, you know, you liked him.”

“What do you mean by ‘like’?”

“You know,” Betty said, doing a little dance to try to represent sexual attraction. 

“Betty, I’m not a fucking homosexual.” He almost shouted, but muffled it, so it came out as a strange sort of squeak.

“You don’t need to tell me that you’re not having sex, Flash. That seems like personal information,” she said. He furrowed his brow and stormed down the hallway, flicking her off as he disappeared around a corner.

So, yes. She did sort of fuck up her interview with Flash. It wasn’t the ideal scenario, but she could still work with it. She’d learned something about Peter, right? 

She wracked her brain, trying to figure out what it was. She couldn’t find anything. On to Plan B, which was to talk to Peter.

Any good journalist would try to talk to their subject. You don’t make a documentary about a living person without talking to them. It was common sense.

But Betty did not want to mess that up as well. Betty had finally been accepted by MJ as a friend, and she didn’t want to screw things up by making everything weird between Peter and herself. It wasn’t worth it.

She didn’t want to disappoint Cindy either, though. Cindy had done that thing she does when she’s trying to pretend she didn’t care. She’d go on her phone, then mention the thing casually, as if it were no more important than some third-rate cat meme. But Betty could read her eyes, and her lips, and the way her chest rose and fell, and know that she cared. 

If Betty couldn’t talk to Peter, she could still investigate him. She’d just have to get creative about her methods.

Most people didn’t know it, but Betty was kind of a computer geek. She spent her weekends teaching a beginner coding class for little girls, and she’d had the same summer job for two years now, as an assistant counselor at a STEM camp near her house. So, after she finished her homework, she got out her computer and began a deep dive into the internet.

The first few results Cindy got were what she was expecting. Lawyers in Wisconsin, a couple businessmen from New York, birth certificates, graves. The sorts of things you find when you look for any other name. After she’d narrowed it down a little more, she found some mentions of Peter scattered about for various academic achievements. She was proud to say that she’d written a few of the articles herself.

She followed his metaphorical paper trail, until she realized she couldn’t go any further. She’d decided to check out his past, to try to figure out whatever it was Cindy wanted to know, but after going back about four years, she couldn’t find a single thing about Peter. It was as if he had simply popped into existence on day.

Usually Betty could find at least one thing on everyone. It didn’t matter how sheltered you’d been as a child, or how much your parents tried to keep you off the internet, there was always something. Even if it was just a birth certificate or a school enrollment, there was proof that you existed.

But there was nothing for Peter Parker. He was a ghost.

Betty checked the time. It was two in the morning. She sighed, and put her computer away. It was a school night, and she wanted to be well rested in the morning so that she looked her best on camera.

It wasn’t really important, was it? To find out what was up with Peter? Cindy would get over it quickly enough. She always did, eventually.

Betty closed her eyes and went to bed. She could figure it out in the morning. Or not. It didn’t matter, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm going back to school tomorrow, so I feel like I should warn y'all that my updates might get a little less consistent. I'll still try to update regularly, though.  
> Anyway, I hope you like this chapter!


	6. True Terror

Bucky knew Peter was lying the moment he told him that everything was okay. The kid may have been able to fool everyone else, but Bucky could read him like a book. Peter could swear up and down that he was acclimating to his life as a high school student with grace and poise, but Bucky knew it just wasn’t true.

He wasn’t going to pretend like he knew everything that went on in Peter’s mind. It would be ridiculous for anyone to say that. But he could try to understand. It was the least he could do for the kid.

When Bucky had first found Steve again, after all those years apart, he had tried to understand him. He had tried to piece apart his pain so that he could make it disappear. Steve, that idiot who had always been too nice for his own good, had spent hours with him when the world got too loud and he realized he’d never see his sister or his parents again. When he realized that they’d been dead while he was killing innocent people internationally.

Bucky had spent as many hours numb as he had spent drowning in emotion. For every day he spent grovelling for forgiveness he spent another standing in the kitchen, thinking about how different the twenty-first century was, and how odd it was that he was allowed nice things.

Bucky saw how Peter acted around the others. He would joke and laugh like the best of them, but he would also flinch when someone touched his shoulder or talked too loudly. When dinner came and all the food was laid out on the kitchen counter, he saw the way Peter’s plate was never as full as it should be, and how he hid non-perishables in his bedroom.

Bucky understood, though he sometimes wished he didn’t. When you think you’re bad and you’re given good things, you’re constantly filled with terror. Everything could be taken away at a moments notice, because you’ve never deserved any of the things you have. Bucky understood, because he’d spent years feeling like that. It made his heart ache to know Peter felt the same way.

He’d been meaning to talk to Peter for weeks now. He’d been preparing what he would say, and how’d he say it, and the exact way he would stand when he walked into the door. But as his hand rested on the doorknob of Peter’s room, he was flooded by panic. What reason did he have to think Peter would want to talk to him? What right did he have to make Peter think about his pain?

He could walk in, and do everything he had planned. It would work, or it wouldn’t. It’s what would have helped Bucky when he first got to the tower,a direct discussion of his thoughts and emotions. But Peter wasn’t Bucky. He wouldn’t want someone to barge into the one place in the tower that was truly his.

“Peter, can I come in?”

“Sure, Bucky. The door’s unlocked.” Bucky walked in and saw Peter hunched over his desk, working on something.

“Oh, what’s that?” 

“Just some Calculus homework. It’s not that bad.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t understand it,” Bucky said. Last time Peter had tried to explain his schoolwork, it had gone badly. Bucky was still trying to figure out what a ‘limit’ was. He had always been more of a liberal arts guy.

“I think you just have a mental block about math. You could totally do it if you wanted to.”

“But I don’t.” Bucky picked up one of Peter’s action figures and started playing with it as Peter went back to his work. They stayed like that for a minute as Bucky tried to figure out how to bring up what he wanted to say without making Peter uncomfortable.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Bucky had heard Sam say one time that it was better to have someone bring something up than saying it yourself.

“I mean, Ned’s been trying to get me to watch some show called Game of Thrones, which sounds pretty awesome. I might go over to his house next weekend to watch the first couple episodes.”

“That sounds fun, but I was meaning more,” he searched for the words, “personal things. Like, about before. Or how you’re feeling now.”

“Right now I’m feeling great.”

“Are you sure? Because you seem reserved, and I’ve noticed that you haven’t been eating much lately,” Bucky said. Peter turned around, and Bucky could see the anger written across his face.

“Like you’re doing much better,” he seethed. “I don’t see you talking about your fucking feelings.”

“I could if you wanted me to, Peter.”

“Go ahead, like I give a shit.” 

Bucky put Peter’s action figure back on his shelf and sat down on his bed, trying to look as relaxed as possible. He wanted Peter to feel safe. If Bucky could talk about what he was feeling, then so could Peter. This was the right thing to do, right?

“It was hard when I first got back. I felt dirty, like my sins stills scarred my skin, like everyone could see what I had done.” Bucky looked at Peter. He was listening intently, though feigning disinterest. Bucky kept going. “I felt angry most days, and confused all the rest. Steve was there, and he wanted to help, but he just didn’t get it. I felt like a burden. I didn’t deserve to be there. I wasn't good enough for all the things I was given, and I tried to-”

Peter cut him off. “I understand. Sometimes, when I’m with everyone, I look around and realize how much worse I am then them.” Tears started to form in the corners of his eyes. “I just want to be a good person. I want to help people instead of hurting them.” The tears started to roll down his cheeks. “I want to be a hero, like you, and Tony, and Clint, and even Wade.”

“Peter, I think you’re a hero.”

“But Bucky, I’ve caused so much pain.”

“So have I. I’ve done just as much shit as you have, if not more, and you said that I’m a hero.”

“That’s because you are, and I’m not.”

“Then who’s Spiderman?”

“Spiderman’s someone else. He’s not me.”

“Peter, you’re Spiderman. Every good thing he’s done is something you’ve done for someone else. Every mugger you’ve stopped, every cat you’ve gotten out of a tree, that’s something you’ve done to make the world a better place.”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m a good person.”

“No one’s a good or bad person, Peter. If they were, they wouldn’t be people. If I could make you understand that right now, I would. But I can’t, and I’m sorry for that.”

Peter wiped at his face again, trying to stifle the tears. Bucky knew that nothing he said would be able to change Peter’s mind, but he hoped, at least, that it could be a start. Bucky wanted to see Peter happy, and if his words could make Peter smile only one time more, then he would fill the world with noise.

“Peter, I love you. I want you to know that.”

“I love you too, Bucky.” 

And Bucky could tell he meant it, and nothing mattered more in that moment than knowing that one day things would be okay, for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to come out!   
> From now on I'm going to be updating this series twice a week, on Mondays and Fridays. I might do a couple updates at different times, if I'm feeling particularly productive one week.  
> Also, I have so many ideas for these stories, and most of them are completely incompatible, so I have to figure out which ones are actually worth writing. I'm still totally open to suggestions on that front, by the way.


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